


On the Road to Love

by Mizmak



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: First Kiss, M/M, Road Trips, Romance, Sharing a Bed, Sleepy Cuddles, Sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-14
Updated: 2019-12-14
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:15:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21792085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mizmak/pseuds/Mizmak
Summary: Crowley enters a motor rally race from London to Inverness and back, and he needs a navigator -- an angel who refuses to let Crowley use magic to win.  Fun and romance ensue.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 81





	On the Road to Love

The Bentley got a flat tire just outside Milton Keynes, and there was nothing magical that Crowley could do to fix it.

“Bloody Hell,” he muttered as he got out of the car. He’d managed to pull into a lay-by before doing too much damage to the wheel.

Aziraphale climbed out. He had a feeling Crowley was not best pleased, and of course, it was all his fault. But perhaps he could find a way to help, not that he knew anything about automobiles. 

He walked round to the rear, where Crowley was staring at the spare tire strapped there. He gave the angel a pleading look. “Come on, just a _little_ miracle?”

“No. That’s cheating. And you _promised_.”

“Bloody _Hell_.” Crowley lifted the boot and began rummaging about. “Must be something here. Aha.” He pulled out a battered, yellowed booklet. “ _Maintaining Your Bentley_.” He flipped through the pages until he found the needed instructions. “Something about a jack and a wrench and what’s a lug nut?”

“We are intelligent beings,” Aziraphale started unstrapping the spare tire. “We should be able to sort it out.”

Crowley tossed the manual aside and began flinging random tools onto the ground. “Remind me not to ever listen to you again.”

“Consider yourself reminded.”

“And not to ever talk to you again, either.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “It’s a flat tire, for Heaven’s sake.” He smiled. “It’s not as if it’s the end of the world.”

He picked up the manual as Crowley made a wordless sound halfway between a grunt and a groan. “I’ll read, and you can fix it.”

“I’ll fix _you_.”

Then they set about struggling through the changing of the tire.

They had departed London at nine a.m. sharp that morning, as one of thirty entrants in the Centennial Circuit Motor Rally race.

The race ran from London to Inverness and back again, and was being run to commemorate the rally’s inception one hundred years earlier. The rules stipulated only vintage automobiles built between 1900 and 1930. Teams consisted of two people – a driver and a navigator. No night driving was allowed – a one-day drive north, an overnight stay in Inverness, followed by a second day’s drive south.

Crowley had been quite excited when he’d first heard about the rally, and talked Aziraphale into being his navigator by the very solid reasoning that he didn’t know anyone else.

It hadn’t really taken any effort to convince Aziraphale to go. He had never felt closer to Crowley than now, after thwarting both Heaven and Hell. They’d been left alone to do as they pleased, and what pleased him was to be in Crowley’s company as much as possible.

The day before the rally began, however, Crowley’s enthusiasm lessened a bit when he discovered, while reading over the detailed rules, that in order to fully replicate the rally’s beginnings as much as possible, they were not allowed any modern technology – nothing invented after 1920.

“No mobiles,” he said in disgust as they packed a hamper with food and potables. “How am I supposed to survive for two days without my phone?”

“I’m certain you’ll think of something.”

“And no CD player?”

Ah, yes, that would be more torturous for him. “And no radio, either. Not commercially available until later in the 1920s.” 

“Bugger it.”

Aziraphale decided this would not work out well unless he brought along some way to keep Crowley entertained on what would be a ten or eleven hour drive each way. So he packed a few extras.

Next Crowley discovered he had to drive the speed limit. “How am I supposed to _win_ if I can’t go faster than everyone else?”

“It has to be a _fair_ race.”

“No, it has to be a race that I _win_.” Crowley snapped his fingers. “And I intend to win.”

Though he hadn’t actually done anything when he’d snapped his fingers, Aziraphale knew what that gesture meant. “You can’t use magic!”

“ _What?”_

“I said, it has to be a _fair_ race. What’s the point of going at all if you’re going to simply miracle your way to the finish line first?”

“What’s the point of being supernatural if I can’t be _super_?”

“No.” He put his foot down. “I am _not_ coming with you if you’re going to cheat.”

“Aw, don’t be like that, Angel.”

“Well, I _am_ like that. It’s no fun otherwise.”

Crowley sighed. “Not even a _small_ demonic miracle now and then? What about filling the tank?”

“You’ll have to stop at a petrol station.”

“ _Gah_. What about _money?”_

“I’ll allow you to miracle up what you think you’ll need for petrol and the hotel in Inverness before we leave. But once the rally has started, _no_ miracles of any kind.” Aziraphale crossed his arms. “Or I stay here.”

Crowley waved his arms in frustration. “Fine. Whatever.” He finished stuffing wine bottles into the hamper. “ _You’re_ no fun.”

“And I want you to promise.”

“You _what?”_

“ _Promise_ that you will not cheat during the race by using magic.” 

“Oh, for Heaven’s –“ Crowley broke off. “For _Hell’s_ sake. Really?”

Aziraphale remained firm. He knew how easily Crowley could slip. “Yes.”

“I will still win.” 

“Possibly. But it isn’t winning if it isn’t fairly run.”

Crowley hemmed and hawed a bit more, though in the end, he did promise not to use any demonic miracles of any kind once the rally started.

Which was why he was standing on the side of the road two hours into a ten-hour drive kicking a flat tire into the ditch. “Take _that_.”

It had taken them half an hour, a lot of sore arm muscles, a lot of cursing, and a hand from a helpful passing lorry driver to get the new tire on, but it was finally on and they were soon on the road again, continuing north.

Aziraphale noticed after a while that their speed seemed to be increasing beyond the limit. “Slow down.”

“We have got to make up the time lost.”

“You’re not allowed to exceed the limit, remember?”

Crowley snorted. “Those are rally rules, not part of your idiotic miracle-free rule. I want to win.”

He did love to drive, Aziraphale had to admit. He supposed it wouldn’t matter a little bit, breaking the rally rule in order to make up the time. The flat tire was clearly an accidental occurrence, not something under Crowley’s control, and he decided not to let it spoil his fun.

“Very well.”

“Yes?”

“Yes, go faster. At least until we’re back on schedule.”

Crowley grinned. “That’s my Angel.”

“Don’t get cocky.”

“I am _always_ cocky.”

Well, there was no answer to _that_. Aziraphale took a deep breath and let it out slowly, and tried to relax as Crowley zipped down the motorway, passing cars with abandon. Driving fast certainly made him happy.

And he did love to see Crowley happy.

Spotting the other rally drivers wasn’t hard. They were all antique automobiles, and each sported bright red rally banners across their sides. Crowley assigned Aziraphale the task of keeping track of which ones he passed.

After another hour and a half of driving, they had passed a good seventeen of the cars, and had made up the delay. He was glad to see Crowley smiling more now, enjoying the race.

Until he noticed the fuel gauge.

“Damn. I’m almost out of petrol. _Damn, damn, damn_.”

“Surely all of the drivers will need to stop for fuel. We can catch them up again.” Aziraphale turned to the back seat to rummage in the hamper, where he had been prescient enough to store a road map.

He pulled it out and carefully examined the markings. “Nottingham is closest, I believe.” The only maps he was familiar with were the older, antique ones in his shop. This was a contemporary one, and it contained a confusing amount of details. 

“Right. I see the sign for it.” Crowley pulled off and drove along for some while before reaching the outskirts of the city, where he found a petrol station. 

The trouble started on the way back. As the navigator, it was Aziraphale’s job to, well, navigate – and he hadn’t paid enough attention to the route in. 

Twenty minutes later, nowhere nearer to the M1 than when they’d left the garage, Aziraphale admitted defeat. “I’m so sorry. We’re lost.”

Crowley tapped his fingers on the wheel as he pulled over. “Lost.”

“Yes. I think we should have gone left a ways back instead of right. Possibly.”

“I see.” Crowley snatched the map from his hands. “Ruddy rules.” He studied the map as he muttered. “Let’s not use anything modern. Let’s not use mobiles or GPS or anything remotely bloody useful.”

Aziraphale cleared his throat. “It’s in the spirit of the race, after all. It’s a _centennial_ rally -- I think it’s delightful that they added that stipulation. Makes it more authentic.”

Crowley rolled down his window to peer out at the nearest street sign, then went back to the map. “Whittingham? How the hell did we get on Whittingham Road?”

“I wasn’t _trying_ to get us lost.”

“Well, don’t try to not get us lost any more.” Crowley tossed the map in his face as he pulled out into the road. “I think.”

Eventually he found his way to the M1 and sped up. “I’m going to go over the speed limit again, thanks to you, and I will not be hearing any complaints.”

“Fine.”

“ _Fine_.”

“No more delays, is that clear?”

“The first one wasn’t my fault!”

Crowley drove faster, with a very determined expression. “The next time we need petrol, it will be at a stop that we can _see_ from the motorway.”

“Fine.”

“Good.”

Aziraphale looked at his pocket watch. It was getting close to one p.m. Definitely past his lunchtime. Perhaps a spot of food would perk both of them up. “Lunch?” he asked.

“Not hungry.”

“Well, I am.” He rummaged in the hamper, where they had packed the comestibles. “Ah. What about a few bites of smoked salmon and brie crostini?”

“Help yourself. Where’s the wine?”

“Is that wise? At least eat something to cushion the effect.”

“What are you, my guardian angel?”

“Of course I am.”

Crowley grinned. “Okay, bring on the salmon whatever it is.” 

Aziraphale settled down to his meal, savoring each bite. He split the supply of crostini into two portions, and handed Crowley his half piece by piece. It was an easy snack to eat while driving.

Crowley finished eating and said, “Drink?”

Aziraphale poured him half a glass of wine.

“That’s all I get?”

“Yes. We have a long ways to go. Pace yourself.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

He put the lunch things away and then wondered if he should tell Crowley to slow down. He’d encouraged it earlier, but that was before their second delay. It wouldn’t do to attract the attention of the police and risk yet another setback. Crowley wouldn’t be able to miracle any officers away, either, not if he stuck to his promise.

Aziraphale returned to counting the other rally cars they passed, and another hour later, when they’d got past a fair few, he told Crowley to slow down to the posted speed limit again.

“Do I have to?”

“No sense getting pulled over.”

“When have I ever been pulled over? All I have to do is—“ Crowley broke off. “ _Damn_ and _bollocks_. Tell me again why I wanted to do this.”

“Because you love to drive.”

_“Fast_. I love to drive _fast_ , Angel.”

“And because you want to win.”

“Oh, yes. I do enjoy winning.” Crowley slowed up a bit.

“Good.”

A short while later he caught Crowley’s hand moving stealthily towards the radio dial. 

“You’re not supposed to do that.”

“Bugger it. No one’s going to _know_.”

“ _I_ will.” Truth to tell, Aziraphale did not care for Crowley’s tastes in music, and was pleased there was an official rally rule against it.

“Well, I can’t drive another what – six, seven hours – without any music.”

“Luckily, I have just the thing.” He had come prepared. Aziraphale pulled his tin whistle from his coat pocket and started playing the Skye Boat Song.

“Oh, no. No, no, no, no, _no_.”

Aziraphale stopped. “But it’s a lovely song.”

“ _NO._ ”

“I know lots of other tunes you might like—“

Crowley snatched the whistle and tossed it out the window.

“Well, I never!” Aziraphale crossed his arms. “That wasn’t very nice.”

“Kept me from strangling you.”

He pouted for some time. Then he dug into the hamper once more and pulled out a book. He rarely traveled without one, and he had an idea.

“I shall read aloud to you.”

“Oh, no. I’m begging you – please don’t read to me.”

“Why not? It’s entertaining.”

“Not to me.”

“Too bad. And don’t you _dare_ toss this out the window. It’s a first edition.”

“Can I toss _you_ out the window?”

“Shut up.” Aziraphale opened the book and began to read.

“ _Mr. Sherlock Holmes, who was usually very late in the mornings, save upon those not infrequent occasions when he was up all night, was seated at the breakfast table._ ”

Crowley sighed. “I’m doomed.”

“You’re being entertained on a long straight stretch of motorway. Now be quiet, please, and listen.”

“Remind me not to ever take you on a road trip –“

“I said, be _quiet_.”

Crowley’s mouth opened, then shut, and as he focused intently on the roadway, Aziraphale resumed reading _The Hound of the Baskervilles_.

They crossed into Scotland and were nearing Glasgow near dinner time. Crowley was determined not to stop for anything except petrol, so Aziraphale had to sustain himself on the contents of the hamper. He had packed plenty of snack items, which he nibbled on over the hours whenever he took a break from reading.

He had been amused the first time he took a reading break, when Crowley, who had maintained a stony silence throughout, glanced sharply at him. “Why did you stop?”

“My throat is dry. I need refreshment. Do you want anything?”

“No, I’m fine.”

He had eaten a little and drunk some water, and had deliberately taken his time. The longer he spent on his repast, he noted, the more Crowley tapped the steering wheel.

Aziraphale stretched out his break, eating as slowly as he could possibly manage, until Crowley finally snapped.

“Get on with it, then.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You’ve been eating for half a bloody hour.”

“And your point is?”

“My _point_ is, when are you going to be ‘refreshed’ enough to read again?”

Aziraphale smiled in triumph. “You _want_ me to read more?”

Crowley grimaced. “Maybe.”

“Either you do or you don’t. Perhaps I’ll just take a little nap instead.”

“But—but—“

“Yes?” he asked sweetly.

“Well, I was wondering what happens to Sir Henry…er…and whether Barrymore is up to no good…and if the Hound is real, and, well, you haven’t _finished_ it.”

“All right.” He truly didn’t want to tease Crowley. It was a minor miracle indeed that he’d wound up enjoying the story, and he couldn’t bring himself to spoil things. He cleared his throat. “I shall be able to finish it easily before we reach Inverness.”

“Thanks.” Crowley paused. “You read well.”

“Oh, do I?” Aziraphale relished the praise.

“Yes. You make all the characters sound differently. And it’s, well, you make it sound like a drama almost. On the stage – I can _see_ it.”

“ _Thank_ you.” Aziraphale found the place where he’d left off and began to read.

They reached Inverness at eight that night. The race coordinators had booked rooms for the drivers at the same hotel, where they checked in with officials on arrival, and logged their times. They would be given staggered starts in the morning depending on their arrival times in Inverness. From that point on, the winner would be whoever crossed the finish line first back in London the next day.

“We’re not in a bad spot, considering,” Aziraphale said as the official handed him their start time. “Only five drivers will be ahead of us tomorrow, and we’ll be just half an hour behind the last one.”

“I can handle them,” Crowley replied. He clapped his hands. “Shall we have a proper dinner?”

“Indeed.” 

They dined at _Chez Roux_ , lingering over their meal and a bottle of wine. It was wonderful to relax after the long drive. Even Crowley ate a good portion of his food for once, and ate every bit of his dessert.

They ambled back to the hotel on the warm August night, and as they strolled along, Crowley suddenly slipped an arm around Aziraphale’s waist. 

It happened so naturally that it took a moment to register, but when it did, the angel closed his eyes and sighed. They didn’t touch. Not that much, anyway, nor that often. Not that he hadn’t wanted to, all these years.

He very slowly and very casually slid his own arm around Crowley’s waist in return. He had a bit of difficulty matching his steps to his friend’s saunter, but after a few feet Crowley subtly altered his stride to better fit with the angel’s.

“I’m sorry if I got irritable today,” Crowley said.

“Not to worry. I know how hard it was not to use your magic.”

“Wasn’t that bad, in the end.”

“No? I was starting to wonder if perhaps it was a silly idea.” He had rather forced Crowley into it, and while he still thought it had been valid, not wanting to cheat in the race, he also felt it had strained things a bit too much at times.

“Nah. I like that you want to play fair. It’s not _my_ style, mind. But I like that it’s _yours_.” Crowley smiled. “We’re opposites in many ways.”

Aziraphale felt a wave of affection coming from Crowley then. He often did, but this one was stronger than most. “Pity we don’t have more in common.”

Crowley’s arm suddenly tightened around him. “No, it isn’t. Do you want to know why?”

Aziraphale swallowed hard. Did he? “Why?”

Crowley stopped walking and turned in their partial embrace to face him. “Because opposites _attract_.”

“Oh.” Oh, yes, he did want to know. With his free hand, the one not still wrapped round Crowley’s waist, he touched Crowley’s chest. “I suppose that’s why we are the closest, and best of friends.”

Crowley took off his sunglasses. He looked into Aziraphale’s eyes with something the angel had seen before, and had not wanted to question, fearing a flippant denial. Not merely affection. _Love_. 

And he simply stood there, silently gazing at Aziraphale, and it didn’t feel at all unusual or uncomfortable or like anything that shouldn’t be happening. Aziraphale felt loved. As if this was the way they had always been.

At last Crowley broke the moment by smiling. He brushed gentle fingers down Aziraphale’s face. “ _Closest_ of friends.” Then he turned them round to walk on, arm in arm, back to the hotel.

They both collapsed into the hotel room bed close to midnight, utterly exhausted. 

They had never shared a bed before.

They hadn’t brought any nightclothes.

So they lay there in the dark beneath the sheets, naked, something else Aziraphale had never experienced – not with anyone, not in six thousand years.

He lay on his back, as did Crowley, only a foot or so between them. Aziraphale was very, very tired, yet unable to sleep. His mind refused to shut down, and insisted on thinking about the most decidedly unusual things.

Just as he was wondering whether his companion had dozed off, Crowley whispered, “Are you asleep?”

“No. I seem to be thinking too much.”

“Oh, that’s bad for your health, Angel.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Aziraphale sighed. There was a question that their current situation had brought to mind, and he didn’t know if he really wanted to know the answer. But the thought refused to leave him alone, so he finally simply put it forth.

“I was wondering,” he said slowly, “if you’d ever—I mean, I’ve never shared—“ He stopped, trying to find the right way to phrase it. “That is, I do sleep sometimes yet, do you know, I’ve only just realized that I’ve always slept _alone.”_

“Never shared a bed? Not _once_?”

“No. Why would I?” He paused. “Have _you_?” There. The question was out.

“Oh. Well. Yeah.”

“Really.” He shouldn’t have been surprised, he supposed.

He _was_ surprised, though, when Crowley added, “Only one time. And not on purpose.”

That seemed unlikely. “How can you share someone’s bed by accident, may I ask?”

Crowley yawned and stretched, then settled back down. “Big gala at the ducal palace in Milan, 1490 something. Had _way_ too much wine and passed out. Woke up in a very large bed with five or six people in it.”

“I’m shocked.” Aziraphale said it with a touch of amusement.

“Leonardo da Vinci had his arm around me,” Crowley replied in a wistful tone. “Lovely man. I liked him.”

“Did you indeed?”

“And he liked _me_.”

Aziraphale was regretting he’d ever asked. But if he was in for a penny, he might as well be in for a pound. “Do tell.”

Crowley laughed softly. “Nothing to tell, Angel. No more than _you_ would. Demons aren’t any more sexual than angels are, in case you were wondering.”

“I wasn’t.” Though he certainly had.

“I’m afraid Leo found me to be a great disappointment.”

Aziraphale had a flash of memory then, to a party in London in the 1890s. “Well, _I_ was a disappointment once, too, I’ll have you know.”

“ _You were?”_ Crowley turned towards him. “To who?”

“To _whom_. Oscar Wilde got me onto a balcony once and wanted to kiss me. Poor fellow. Can we stop talking about this now? I’m sorry I brought it up.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Crowley shifted a little closer. “I’d want to do the same thing.”

And then Aziraphale felt it again – that wave of love. He turned on his side towards Crowley, who was now mere inches away. Why was it so strong, after all this time – was it because they no longer had any reason to hold back? Because no one in Heaven or Hell cared anymore if they were together?

All these years the pull had been present, the yearning had been there, but so had the chains of Heaven and Hell been around them.

And those restraints had broken.

To hell with thinking and pondering and wondering. Aziraphale leaned in to touch his lips to Crowley’s forehead. “I love you.”

Crowley smiled. “How long have you wanted to say that?”

“Centuries.”

“Yeah, I know.” Crowley stroked the angel’s face. “Heaven wouldn’t let you.”

“I couldn’t risk it. They might have taken me from Earth.”

“They don’t care now.” Crowley slipped his arm around him. “And Hell doesn’t care if I tell you that I love you, too.”

“No, they don’t.” Aziraphale moved into a tight embrace. And then he kissed Crowley on the lips.

He felt the warmth of Crowley’s response flow through him, and he felt free, and as he parted his lips for more of Crowley’s touch, he felt more than free – he felt complete.

Their lips parted, and Crowley held him as they drifted into sleep. Aziraphale woke several times during the night, and always he felt the love strongly flowing between them, and it was all he wanted or needed – simply to love his friend, and to be loved in return.

They didn’t talk nearly as much the next day. Crowley stayed focused on the race, while Aziraphale concentrated on spotting the five cars ahead of them. By the time they reached Glasgow, Crowley had passed one of the five, and by the time they reached Leicester he had overtaken two more.

He grew increasingly excited. “I can _win_ this damn race.”

Aziraphale wasn’t so sure. It had taken a long time to gain ground on each driver, and there were still two more to get round without that much time left.

Crowley patted the dashboard. “Best car ever built. She deserves to win.”

They drove on, slightly over the speed limit, enough to hopefully gain ground without drawing undue attention.

At Luton they passed the fourth car. Not much longer now. The finish line was in Uxbridge at the West London Racing Centre, only thirty miles away. And traffic would slow considerably as they neared Greater London. 

As they turned off the M1 at eight p.m. and turned west towards Uxbridge, Aziraphale searched for the last car as the summer light began to fade. Where was it? He didn’t want Crowley to lose.

And then he spotted an antique car down the road. The racing centre wasn’t that far off. They couldn’t overtake the car, not in this traffic.

Crowley had seen it, too. “ _No_ ,” he cried. He looked around frantically at the traffic. “I can’t get round. What I wouldn’t give for a miracle right now.”

It was then that Aziraphale realized that he had made Crowley promise not to use magic – and _only_ Crowley.

He had never agreed not to use it _himself_.

It wouldn’t be playing fair.

It surely wouldn’t be the right thing to do.

It was Crowley’s style, not _his_.

And he didn’t give a damn.

Aziraphale waved his hand through the air at a moment when Crowley wasn’t looking his way.

A few minutes later, Crowley’s eyes widened as they passed the final rally competitor, standing beside his stopped, smoking car.

“Hah!” Crowley shouted as he drove by with a wave. “We did it!”

A short time later he drove into the racing centre and crossed the finish line in first place. He leapt out to pat the Bentley’s bonnet. “ _Good_ car.”

Aziraphale climbed out to greet the officials, who congratulated them warmly. Crowley beamed as he was handed a trophy.

“I knew you could do it,” Aziraphale said.

“Of course you did.” Crowley leaned in to whisper into his ear. “You made _sure_ that I did.”

_Uh-oh._

Aziraphale gulped. “A coincidence – it was a sheer coincidence that the other car broke down.”

“Tell me no lies, Angel.”

He blanched. “Well, I – I couldn’t let you lose. You were so happy.” He waited for Crowley to yell, to get angry, to tell him off in no uncertain terms.

Instead, Crowley gave him a hug. “ _Thanks_.” He broke away to collect more congratulations from a crowd of racing fans.

After an hour of dealing with the rally ceremony, they managed to get away. As they drove towards Soho, Aziraphale asked, “So you aren’t mad?”

“I _almost_ was,” Crowley admitted. “But the thought of _you_ being just enough of a bastard to rig the win changed my mind.”

“It was rather unsporting, wasn’t it.”

“Beautifully unsporting.”

“And you liked that.”

“Angel, if you were holier than thou all the time, you wouldn’t be my best friend, would you?”

“No, I suppose not.” He’d not thought of it that way. “I suppose I’d be insufferable.”

“And boring. And trust me, you are never boring.”

They pulled up at last to Aziraphale’s bookshop. Crowley didn’t bother asking to come in. He simply grabbed the hamper and strode on inside.

He set it down on the desk, then found two shot glasses and a bottle of brandy. He poured the shots and handed one over to the angel. “Nightcap?”

Aziraphale touched his glass to Crowley’s. “Cheers. To the best motor rally driver in Britain.”

Crowley clinked his glass. “Cheers.”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t the best navigator.” He set his glass down and stifled a yawn.

“You may not know how to read a map,” Crowley replied. “But you know how to read _me_.” He brushed Aziraphale’s hair. “Can I stay?”

“Of course you can stay.” Aziraphale headed towards his bedroom, then stopped and turned round. “Wait – do you mean stay tonight, or—“ He hesitated, hope filling him.

Crowley stepped close and put his hand on the angel’s shoulders. “I mean stay as in _stay_.” He looked thoughtful. “So long as I can bring my houseplants over.”

“Bring anything you like.” Aziraphale grabbed him and kissed him fiercely. “Yes, _stay_.”

“Good.” 

Crowley followed him to the bedroom, where they slept long and deeply, wrapped in each other’s arms.


End file.
